wizard-of-the-pigeons

Wizard wanted no part of days like yesterday.
He waited alone at the bus stop, taking comfort from his surroundings. It was
his favorite bus stop, under an iron and glass Victorian pergola at First and
Yesler. The Pergola, in Seattle. Since 1909, it had sheltered folk, first for trolleys
and cable cars, now for the bus. A Tlingit totem pole shared its sidewalk island,
and a bronze bust of Chief Seattle presided over the area. The drinking fountain
offered facilities for people, horses, and dogs. When Wizard stood in this small
triangular plot of history, he felt as if the spirit of Seattle flowed through him,
backwards and forwards in time, with him as a sort of intelligent filter. This was
his city, and he knew it as well as any. Much of his knowledge had been gained
by following city tours at a discreet distance, or eavesdropping on the benches
here as the guides went through their spiels. The details amused him. The totem
pole was the second one to stand here. The first had been stolen from a tribal
burial ground in 1899, but was lost to fire in 1938. When the city sent a fivethousand
dollar check to pay for the carving of a new pole, the Tlingits had
served their revenge cold and sweet. “Thanks for finally paying for the first
one,” the cancelled check was endorsed. “A new pole will cost you another five
thousand.” Wizard grinned softly to himself at the thought of it. The bus
thundered up in front of him in a belch of heat. The doors hissed open and the
driver scowled down on him.
“This ain’t a flophouse,” he commented sourly as Wizard came up the steps.
“So don’t even think about going to sleep in here.”
Wizard kept his aplomb. No bus driver had ever dared speak to him like that
before, though he had heard similar comments made to derelicts on stormy days.
He tried a jaunty smile. “The night was late, but not that late.”
“Surprised you knew it was daytime.” The driver didn’t wait for him to be
seated, but jerked the bus back into traffic.
Wizard kept his balance and made for a seat near the back. As he stared out
the window, he mentally reviewed his appearance.
He was shaven, washed, and tidily, if casually, attired. So why had the driver
been able to pick him out as a resident of the streets? No matter how he puzzled
over it, he could find no loophole, no crevice in his protective armor. He should
have been immune to such hassles. He stooped to retie his bootlaces and to force
himself to calmness. He refused to heed a little voice that warned of impending
disaster. No doubt the driver had simply had a rough night of his own and had
unerringly assumed that Wizard was a safe target. No matter. He would not let it